


Masquerade

by tayngerous



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Laurent's birthday, M/M, Mystery and Intrigue, Vistas of Ridiculousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-20 05:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tayngerous/pseuds/tayngerous
Summary: "Don’t take drinks from strangers. Poison isn’t always deadly; the people who administer it are.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mesdames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mesdames/gifts).



> thanks to @shipstain for beta reading

“But why wear a mask at all?” Damianos already felt stiff, out of place in his tight-laced Veretian garb. He stood in the guest chambers at Arles, one arm held out awkwardly while a servant laced the ridiculously complicated fastenings. 

Nikandros, already dressed in burgundy and black, shrugged. “It’s Vere. What else would you expect?” 

Finally the lacings were finished and Damen turned to look at himself in the mirror that hung from one of the many overly ornamented walls. Well, this wasn’t the worst piece of clothing he had ever had to wear. The bright crimson costume he had been given was warm enough for the cool spring night, but it breathed and moved more flexibly than he would have thought upon first viewing. The golden laces glittered in the lamplight and, he thought as he looked over himself in the mirror,, the colors looked especially vibrant against his dark skin. 

For all his bluster and complaining, Damen was rather looking forward to tonight. It would be his first time actually attending a true Veretian court, with all its political and social quagmires, but one he felt he was well prepared for. 

Even more so when he actually saw the masks. It was an old Veretian tradition, newly fashionable now that the King was making it so. A Masquerade. The ideals behind it were understandable -- it was meant as a way for the populace and royalty to mingle, so that those who ruled might better know the people they governed. In practice, before it had fallen out of favor, it was a place for ambitious nobles to rub elbows and double-dealing alliances to be created and broken. Damen was fairly certain the King intended for this masquerade to be more of the former than the latter. 

Nikadros fitted his own mask to his head. It was bronze plated and shaped in the style of Akielon theatre masks, half-comedy, half-tragedy. A valiant attempt by the designer to appeal to the Akielon tastes, but one that had fallen into the usual Veretian pitfalls. Too much gilt and curvature and filigree. 

Damen’s was much more ornate. A golden lion’s head, which fitted him more like a helmet than what he thought of as a mask. The roaring jaws strapped under his chin, leaving his mouth open to speak, drink and eat, while he peered out through the eye sockets. 

An integral part of the masquerade was that no one was meant to know each other’s identity. One would have to be boorish to ask someone’s name before the unmasking at midnight. It was all a farce, of course. Damen had no misconceptions that anyone would mistake the dark-skinned, enormous red-and-gold lion for anyone but Prince Damianos, heir to the Akielon Throne. Announcing himself at the door at the top of his lungs would probably draw less attention. But he would play his part, as was the way in Vere. 

Having been appropriately costumed, they were led through the labyrinthine halls of the Palace to the courtyard. There was no announcement, no indication that new guests had arrived. And yet, as they stepped into the mingling crowd that had already gathered, their arrival was noticed. 

It started with a few turned heads, a glimmer of recognition behind eyelets, a hurried whisper. Then more turned heads, a swell of the hiss of whispers and the low hum of murmurs. The arrival of the Akielon embassy of two washed over the crowd, extinguishing conversations while everyone turned to look. 

He understood, even if he didn’t like it. It was almost seven years ago that their countries had been at war, a bitter war that in the end cost Vere much more than it had cost Akielos. Those wounds were still fresh. Many people here had likely lost someone or knew someone who had. Despite the peace between their countries, Akielons were not a welcome sight. 

Luckily, he had an ally in the crowd. He could see him coming now, blonde hair turned golden in the torchlight that lit the gardens. 

“It’s good to see you,” The King of Vere, said in Akielon. 

“You’ve grown a beard,” Damen replied in Veretian. “It looks good.”

The two clasped forearms. Auguste had indeed grown a beard in the three years since they had last seen each other. It was neatly trimmed, a darker yellow than his hair. Above the beard was a golden mask that covered his eyes and cheeks and peaking in the prongs of a false crown. 

They had first met in full bloody force on the battlefield at Marlas. Sword had clashed against sword, heir against heir, until neither could hold his blade. They would have kept fighting, until one or both of them had died, if not for a horn from the Veretian camp. At first Damen had expected another trick, another ambush, but instead he saw the color drain from Auguste’s face and moments later the Veretians were retreating, giving ground to the Akielon forces who, as exhausted as they were from a hard-won battle, took the ground and celebrated. 

They learned the next day that the King had been slain on the battlefield -- a stray arrow to the neck. They buried their dead, and the day after there was a surrender, official and sealed by the new King of Vere, not yet coronated. They learned later that he had disapproved of the sneak attack, the betrayal of wartime etiquette, but he loathed to disobey his King more. 

From then they discussed the surrender in a series of meetings. Damen had insisted on attending, because he did not trust this Veretian prince. And soon after, because he found that he liked him. They were made of similar stuff, that much he had gleaned from their fight, but he had not expected it to extend beyond in the way that it had. 

His father gained Delpha, and some land beyond, in exchange for a tenuous peace between their countries once more. Damen gained a friend. 

“We are honored to have you here,” Auguste said, leading him through the courtyard. He let the gathered court make their furtive glances and snide remarks while his presence cast a soothing balm. If he, who had lost his father and nearly his own life to the Akielons, could welcome them into his home, then his subjects could find it in themselves to be welcoming.

“I would have come sooner had the opportunity presented itself.” 

Auguste waved the regrets away with a sweep of his arm. “You are here now, though. My brother was surprised to hear you would be attending his  _ debut _ . I think he is curious to meet you at last.” 

Damen knew that Laurent, the King’s brother, had been present at Marlas, though he had been only thirteen. “And I him, along with the Patran Princess I’ve heard so much about.” 

Auguste grinned at that. “Yes, she will make an appearance, though not until after the unmasking I’m afraid. It would be unseemly for me to have a woman on my arm before our identities are revealed, and she insisted on spending the time with our son.”

Damen knew about the strange inclinations of the Veretian court, but he had not expected them to extend even to the King in this manner. The thought of maintaining such appearances was, to him, exhausting. 

They walked for a little while longer, but more guests were arriving now, and the initial shock of his appearance seemed to have died down. He couldn’t take up all of Auguste’s attention of course, and at last they went their separate ways. 

His Veretian had gotten very good over the years, as he had become a point of contact. His father had always emphasized the importance of understanding the language of one’s enemy, and once they were no longer outright foes it had only improved. So he mingled. It was strange at first, the first few courtiers he addressed gave him odd looks from behind their masks, but once that initial moment had passed, he proved himself witty, with a good deal of charisma. 

Nikandros was less comfortable. He hovered at Damen’s shoulder, never fully engaging in talks of hunting or politics or court gossip (there was a lot of court gossip, Damen thought, for people who couldn’t be certain if the subject of their salacious rumors was nearby). That was to be expected; Nikandros had been selected not just because he was Damen’s friend, but because he was wholly mistrustful of the Veretians. And, as their closest Akielon neighbor, he had every right to be. He was there to keep on guard enough for both of them. 

In his diplomatic efforts Damen found himself learning more than he had expected to about the subject of tonight’s celebration. Prince Laurent was something of an enigma, it seemed. Unlike his golden brother the King, Laurent was a reclusive figure. In fact, the most scandalous thing about him seemed to be that no one knew of any scandals to which he could be tied. No one knew of any lover he had taken, any pet that he had contracted, any vice he had adopted. So obviously whatever he was up to was horrific enough for everyone around him to keep it quiet. 

“He has a taste for Vaskian women,” whispered one courtier, her own Vaskian companion at her elbow. Damen had come to understand that the Vaskian woman was a pet, and while it would be uncouth to voice it, no one could miss the implication of their relationship. 

“He’s chaste,” said another, later, with the same distaste as one suggesting he slept with women. 

“Or impotent,” suggested another. 

“He’s always in his books, or training,” was the most measured analysis he heard. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to fuck, it’s just that no one is good enough for him.” 

That seemed to be a common thread. He thought himself above everything and everyone. He was rarely seen at parties, and then always by his brother’s side, or surrounded by his small personal guard. When he did speak, it was with devastating wit, or the authority of a spoiled princling. It was lucky, they said, with furtive glances at the golden lion in their midst, that his brother had survived the war with Akielos. Can you imagine what would have happened if he had become king instead? 

Damen wondered what had happened to the boy Auguste had spoken of so fondly, that turned him into the source of such rumors. 

 

A guest caught Damen’s eye, as he and Nikandros strolled down the garden path, a momentary respite from the overwhelming milieu. A flash of golden hair, a simple silver eye-mask, tight-laced garments in a dark blue, contrasted against points of fair skin. He stopped mid-step and for a moment, though they were many meters apart, he was certain the man was looking at him too. 

Another guest knocked into him, upsetting the wine he was carrying. It spilled on the ground, luckily not on their clothes, and Damen apologized for blocking the pathway. When he looked back, the man in the silver mask was gone. 

“No,” said the lad who had walked into him, “I should be apologizing. And here I meant to introduce myself.” He laughed, a nervous tinkling sound, and offered Damen one of the two glasses he had carried over. 

Damen took the wine and inclined it in thanks. “I think introductions are unnecessary under the current circumstances.” 

“Yes.” Then, in heavily accented Akielon he added, “It would be hard to mistake you for anyone else.” 

That pinged a sense of recognition in Damen. He took a second moment to look over his new acquaintance. He was young, not more than twenty Damen would guess. He had soft brown locks, and his green eyes were gazing with an almost awestruck gleam from behind his beaded white mask. There was something in the cut of his jaw and the shape of his nose, and most of all his grasp of Akielon. He was one of Ambassador Guion’s sons. 

Damen become aware that the two of them were quite isolated. Nikandros had tactfully made himself disappear into the crowd, though Damen was certain he was watching nearby. They were partially obscured from the center of the revelry, tucked just off the path between sculpted shrubs and blooming flower bushes. 

“A curse of my country’s infamy, I suppose,” he said. Then, seeing a brief look of confusion, translated himself.

The boy nodded, mouth pursed in sympathy. “I can’t imagine how tiring it must be for you. We Veretians can hardly keep our eyes to ourselves.” His own eyes scanned Damen up and down as he spoke, and his lip twitched upward. Approval. 

“I don’t mind the eyes. It’s the whispers that irritate me.” 

A pause. “Perhaps… there is somewhere you could escape the whispers, for a time.” His pale skin turned pink at his own boldness and he drank deeply from his cup. 

Damen smiled, a coy smirk that he hadn’t expected to use tonight. He had not come here planning to find a bedmate, and this ambassador’s son was not his usual type in any sense, but he was attractive and he was practically throwing himself at him. Who could fault him for wanting a little royal attention? 

“Did you have a place in mind?” His voice took on a husky tone, deeper, softer than before. 

The pink grew darker, more red now. “Yes.” There was a breathless tremor to his voice that made Damen smile wider. “But not now. Later, during the entertainment. Find me in the eastern corridor when the dancers light their fire.” 

Looking very pleased with himself, the young man slipped away back into the crowd. Damen felt pretty pleased in his own right. He downed the wine in his cup and looked around, in search of Nikandros or, if he was lucky, a servant carrying food or more drinks. 

He saw the latter first and deposited his empty glass on the tray in exchange for a tart decorated with fresh fruits. As he selected his, a pale hand darted forward, deftly plucking the strawberry-laden pastry he had been eying from the tray. He turned to this impudent stranger and found a pair of cool blue eyes staring at him from behind the silver mask he had seen before. The intensity of the gaze startled him into silence, his objections dying in his mouth and weighing down his tongue. 

“I see you’ve attracted a suitor. Are you so easy to seduce? A pretty face and some vapid flattery?”  the blond said. Damen could only look at him, struck not only by his brazen attitude, but by his beauty. Damen had certain weaknesses, he was well aware, but this man seemed to hit each and every one in a way that made it hard to combat. 

“That depends. Would you like to try?” He was gratified to see the look of surprise flit across the man’s face, there and gone so quickly that anyone not looking for it would have missed it. 

“You’re too confident for your own good.”

“Is that a warning? Or a threat?” He selected a different, though decidedly inferior tart from the tray. The blue eyes were still staring at him and Damen felt almost like he was being studied, like a specimen on a workbench, his skin split and pulled back. 

“A warning. Don’t take drinks from strangers. Poison isn’t always deadly; the people who administer it are.” 

“Do you only speak in riddles?” 

Finally a smile twitched the corners of those impenetrable lips. “I’ve never spoken a plain word in my life.” He popped the rest of the tart into his mouth.

 

“There you are!” The words were Akielon and Damen turned to see Nikandros advancing on them. Except when he turned back there was no them, just him feeling bewildered and a bit leery. The man in the silver mask had been watching him before approaching him, and his ominousness felt out of place at a party -- even a Veretian party. What did he know? Damen wanted to follow him, to find him in the crowd and demand a straight answer, or at least the chance to get to know him when their masks were gone. 

Nikandros wasn’t alone though. He had brought another man, dressed in red and black with a red square shaped mask that covered the entire upper half of his face and jutted into a blocky point over his mouth and bearded chin. He inclined his torso in an understated but respectful bow. 

“Forgive my impropriety, but I promised my nephew I would ensure the comfort of his most honored guests. How are you finding these festivities?” 

Damen recognized the even, deep tones as those of Auguste’s chief advisor and Uncle. They had met a handful of times during the peace negotiations. He was, as far as Damen could tell, an intelligent and capable man who cared deeply for the welfare of his kin and country. “I am enjoying myself. It’s a spectacle, to say the least.” 

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? I’m pleased that the King has resurrected the old customs.” Across the courtyard, they heard the first few notes of music. “Ah,” the king’s uncle said, “the entertainment is about to begin, and I came here to be sure you found adequate seats. Come.” 

He lead them down the garden paths, back toward the center of the courtyard. Nikandros and Damen exchanged a look behind him. The rumors about the court of Vere and their chosen methods of entertainment were numerous and sordid. It had been a topic of great debate on their journey here. Of course if there was a party there was sure to be entertainment, but the nature of it was a mystery. 

Around the open, stone-paved center of the courtyard, chairs had been erected. Damen was certain those chairs had not been there when they arrived, but he couldn’t recall seeing them being set up. The front rows were already filled with masked courtiers. Some were brazenly draped over others, but with the masks and the colorful costumes it was hard to tell pet from master from lover. He did see the King flanked by several other courtiers, all chatting. He wondered if one of those men was Laurent, the elusive and aloof guest of honor. There was no way to tell.

“We’re too late,” their guide lamented. Then, with a raise of his hand, summoned a servant and produced a couple of glasses of wine. “Not as good as better seats I’m afraid,” he said, handing each of them a glass,” but even from back here you should be able to enjoy the show.” They were given a couple of seats in the mostly-empty back row. Damen looked dubiously at the wine in his hand, recalling the words spoken to him not minutes ago. Carefully he placed the glass under his seat. Nikandros shot a glance at him but said nothing. Who was he to question the actions of his prince? 

The performer emerged into the circle of onlookers. His bare face was almost more of a surprise than his bare chest and arms. He was painted with swirling designs of gold across his face and body. There were jewels too, strung around his neck, wrists, and ankles and woven into his plaited red hair. He carried a pair of batons. 

He stopped in the center of the square and as he did, Damen felt a light touch brush across his shoulder. He looked up to see the young man -- the ambassador’s son -- glancing back at him as he walked toward the castle interior. Damen felt a twinge of excitement. He had almost forgotten the proposition he had received. He looked back to see the dancer was lighting the ends of his batons. 

_ When the dancers light their fire.  _ Damen got off his chair, crouching so that the people across the yard from them would not notice. 

“You’re leaving?” Nikandros sounded distressed. 

“Can you cover my absence? It won’t be too long.” 

Nikandros looked from Damen to the direction the man had disappeared. He knew what Damen was after. He let out a long-suffering “Yes,” to which Damen clapped him on the shoulder. 

Nikandros raised the cup to his lips, to take a much-needed mouthful, but Damen stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Don’t drink what other people give you.” 

He slipped away then, feeling Nikandros’s incredulous eyes on him as the burning batons began to spin. 

Damen picked his way east through the courtyard, relieved to see that most of the guests had gathered to watch the dance. But then, not all of them had. He saw a flash of silver and gold, the graceful step of the man-shaped enigma that he had met earlier was also moving away from the crowds, towards the Palace. What was he doing out? It was certainly possible that he too had a secret rendezvous. No, Damen thought, it wasn’t. He did not have the demeanor of someone sneaking off to have sex. It was too serious, too furtive. He was doing something dangerous. 

_ Don’t be stupid _ , he told himself, though the voice sounded suspiciously like Nikandros.  _ They’re Veretian matters, none of your business.  _ But then he had been watching Damen, and he had taken the time to spout cryptic warnings. Part of him, a very insistent part, wanted to ignore the blonde head weaving northward through the foliage and statuary. It whispered to him of creamy thighs and nervous laughter and that bright red blush. 

He thought, too, of the wry smile under a silver mask. The calculating blue stare. The impassive demeanor and artful tongue. 

He turned north, and followed. 


	2. Chapter 2

The golden head was far enough ahead of him that he had to hurry to keep him in sight. This was made harder because he had to keep crouched low under the tops of the bushes as he went. Even still, the door into the palace had swung shut before he reached it. 

He peered inside, just in case the man had stopped. He hadn’t. The blue-clad figure was moving with purpose now, confident and less furtive now that he was no longer in public. Damen realized, he thought no one had seen him. Finally the figure turned and Damen slid as quietly as he could through the door and to the corner. It was a spiraling staircase.  If he strained, he could hear the light padding of boots going up. 

The stairway was dark, and he saw no sign of a torch or lamp as he started climbing. These were servant’s passages. Guests weren’t meant to be here. If he recalled the intermidible tour they had been given when they arrived at the palace, he was tailing the man towards private chambers of the castle’s nobility. Was he simply retiring for the night? No, he hadn’t acted like any of the other Vertian nobility, and he did not have the air of someone on their way to bed. 

_ This is ridiculous, _ he told himself, keeping out of view as he followed the man up. He should be back at the party watching the flame dancer. Or tucked away in some private chambers making a nobleman’s son mewl. Instead he was paused at the top of a staircase, watching the mystery man approaching a door that was clearly not his own. 

He was almost certain these chambers belonged to a member of the royal family, but he doubted himself. He had seen no guards, no sign of resistance. The man retrieved a key from his tightly laced sleeves and glance around him before opening the door. Still he had not dared to light a lantern or a torch. He slipped inside the room, and Damen felt the urgency of the moment. He either needed to do something now, make his presence known and take what consequences might come from that, or he could simply walk away and leave the machinations of the Veretian court to Vere, as they should be. 

He rushed forward, stopping the door before it closed and forcing his way inside. The man he had been following stumbled, unguarded in that moment. Damen closed the door behind him and faced off with his quarry. The man immediately drew a dagger and attacked him. 

He dodged out of the way, grabbing the man by the wrist and squeezing, forcing it upward. He was surprised to find hard resistance there, not the wispy give he would have expected from a courtier. Still, in sheer strength and mass Damen outclassed the man and the blade clattered to the ground. 

They separated, the man pulling away while Damen kicked the knife out of reach of both of them. 

“What are you doing here?” The man asked. 

“I could ask you the same question.” 

Wary silence. “You followed me. Why?” 

“I wanted to know why you were watching me in the gardens. And what you meant by your warning.”

Whatever answer he had been expecting, that couldn’t have been it. His stance lowered just a fraction. “You weren’t sent, then.” Even with the mask, Damen could feel those blue eyes on him, studying him up and down, calculating, evaluating. “Perhaps it’s better this way.” 

“Forgive me if I can’t follow your logic. Now, will you tell me what you’re doing sneaking into someone else’s chambers during a party, or should I fetch the royal guard?” 

Another pause. More calculations, probably. “I’m investigating.” 

“Investigating whom? For what crime?” 

“The king’s uncle, for treason.” That sent Damen for a turn. His mind reeled with the notion. The king’s uncle was, as far as Damen understood it, his most trusted advisor. 

The man lit a candle, giving the room some much-needed light. It was as ostentatious as Damen would have expected, with several chambers branching from this one. The walls were covered in ornate, unnecessary flourishes and gilt. The man was rummaging through bookshelves and drawers along the wall farthest from him. 

“Do you have proof to back up this accusation?” 

“If I had proof, would I be sneaking into his chambers? I have sources that suggest he is planning something, and enough allies close to him that I could get a key to his room. I have reason to believe that if he succeeds in his plans, the fate of both Vere and Akielos could be in danger, which is why I warned you off of him and his boy. I wasn’t certain that you weren’t working with him already, but given that you aren’t trying to kill me or stop me, I think you are as ignorant as you seem.” 

This was more of an explanation than Damen had expected. He felt dizzy and steadied himself against the wall, trying to think through the information that had been presented to him. Presented in such a clear, matter-of-fact tone that he had a hard time disbelieving him, wild as they were. Even if it was heresy, the speaker believed his words wholeheartedly. 

“Did the King send you?” Damen asked. 

There was a sardonic noise in response -- the almost laugh of someone who had long since given up “The King suspects very little, unfortunately.” He moved from the parlor of the Advisor’s rooms to the bedchamber. Damen followed. 

“Then who do you work for? Who sent you to search these rooms?” 

The man turned, his blue eyes narrowing in the candlelight. He was sizing Damen up again. His mouth opened, but he paused, seeming to change his mind mid-answer. “I work under my own authority, for the good of the King and Vere.” He moved to duck under the bed but Damen caught him by the shoulder. The man grew rigid, tense, ready to fight again.

“Talk like that is treasonous as well.” 

“And? You’ve heard my reasons. Either you believe me or you don’t. You have your choice. So make it and stop threatening me if you don’t intend to act.” 

Damen was a little taken aback and released him. He took a seat on the overly pillowed bed, feeling surprisingly ill. He knew he needed to think, but the intricacies of the situation seemed to send the room spinning. 

He felt a cool hand on his chin, lifting his face. The blonde was suddenly, surprisingly in front of him, holding the light close to his face. He gazed back into those enchanting eyes. His pulse picked up against his will. He was painfully aware of their proximity, the fingers on his skin, the inches between their faces. A need to close that distance pulsed through him, erasing any other thoughts. 

“You drank his wine, didn’t you?” The words seemed too distant. Damen was focusing on the shapes his lips were making, rather than the words coming out of them. “Damianos! Focus.” The man drew back a step, releasing Damen from his intoxicating hold. Damen blinked, feeling stupid, sluggish. 

“No. I put it under my chair.”

“What about that boy you were talking to, in the courtyard, the one in white who wanted you to fuck him -- did you drink the wine he gave you?” 

It felt like centuries ago that it had happened. “Yes.” 

“Shit.” This was more to himself than to Damen. “Then my warning came too late. You’ve been drugged.” 

Ah. That explained a lot. Damen forced himself to be present, to listen, to comprehend. “Do you know with what?” 

“I have an idea. How do you feel right now?” 

“Slow. Everything is distant, broken apart. Like I’m…” He was having a hard time with Veretian now, his mind scattered the vocabulary in dangerous ways. 

“Underwater?” The man supplied. Damen nodded. “It sounds like  _ chalis _ . It’s common enough and easy to get. Too much can disorient you, or knock you out. How much did you take?” 

“I only… just the one glass.” 

“No doubt there would have been more if you followed him wherever he meant to take you.” 

He steadied his breathing. “Why?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what he’s planning, but it seems more and more like whatever it is, he wants you out of the way. With someone else. Someone that he controls.” His words quieted into murmurs, spoken to himself. He started to move around the room again with renewed vigor, opening and searching through everything. 

Damen wanted to help, but it was all he could do to keep his mind from scattering. The King’s Uncle a traitor, and trying to lure him away under the influence of drugs. An ambassador’s son doing his bidding. The ambassador to Akielos, no less. His eyes were drawn to the man as he searched the room -- the only point of light or movement. Concerns of treachery slipped into admiration for the candle flame flickering across his golden hair. The lithe way he moved. He wished those garments were not so conservative, so unforgiving in their tight laces. His own clothes felt stiff, too hot, too constricting. 

The man turned back and caught him staring. Damen didn’t have the capacity to feel ashamed. 

“Hold this.” The man handed him the candle. Damen took it, not deliberately trying to touch the pale fingers holding the stick, but not avoiding them either. 

The man dropped to his knees at the side of the bed, and for one, panicked, delirious second Damen felt that same intense pulse of desire that tightened the back of his throat and tickled his insides. If the masked man noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead he flattened onto his stomach and reached an arm under the bed. After some searching and reaching, during which Damen worked to bring his rebellious body and mind under control, he emerged with a small metal box. He took a seat beside Damen on the bed, already looking the box over. It was surprisingly plain, but securely fastened. There was a very small keyhole at the seam, and the hinges were welded in place so it couldn’t simply be unscrewed. 

From somewhere under the multitude of laces and fabric that made his costume, the man produced a leather pouch which held a carefully organized collection of fine instruments. He balanced the box on his knee and began prodding at it with the different instruments. It took Damen a minute to realize he was trying to pick the lock. 

They sat there in silence, filled only by the sounds of scratching while the man poked his instruments around in the keyhole. His impassive face changed slowly, a crease in his brow, the downturn of his lips. This was not going according to plan. The scratching noise crawled inside Damen’s ears, making them itch. Finally, he had had enough. He held out his hand. “May I try?” 

The man gave him a quizzical look, but since he obviously wasn’t getting anywhere, he passed the box to Damen, taking the candles back in exchange. Damen stood from the bed and walked over to where the knife had dropped during their brief fight. He knelt on the ground, picked up the knife, and placed the box on its back on the ground. He lined up the blade with the seam in the box lid.

“What are you-” the man started to ask, but was cut off when Damen shoved the knife into the seam with all of his strength. He felt the blade bending dangerously beneath him, but he also felt a slight give as the point slipped past the edge. He pushed harder, twisting the knife, pushing it toward the latch, levering it up and down until he heard a loud snap. 

He sat back on his heels to admire the now open box. The knife was a bit bent, but that could be fixed assuming its owner cared. Inside were some papers and some trinkets and, as Damen looked them over, he felt a jolt of surprise ripple through him. He plucked a ring from among the box’s contents. He didn’t trust his eyes, but as he held it, he knew the shape and weight of it. It was a an Akielon ring, passed down through the royal family. Last he had seen it was on his brother, Kastor’s finger. What was it doing here?

WHAM! The door burst open and Damen looked up to see a boar charging at him. As his brain tried to register the increasing unreality of his situation, the boar’s boot connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling.

It wasn’t a real boar, he realized as he tried to get his footing. Just a man wearing a boar mask. He needed to get back up and defend himself. He was dazed, and his limbs were drug-heavy, but the pain was cutting through that. Still, the boar was advancing on him faster than he could move. 

A blur of blue. The boar jerked backward, clawing at his neck and the arm now wrapped around it. The boar kept moving back, slamming his attacker into the wall. The blue arm slackened and the boar broke free, rounding on Damen’s silver-masked savior. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here,  _ your highness _ ,” the boar said. His voice was deep and gruff. 

“And yet, here I am,” said Laurent. 

He had bought enough time. Damen was on his feet again and moving. He could deal with this new information later. Right now there was a fight, and he knew how to fight. 

He went for the knife first. Bent as it was, it would be better than nothing. The boar swore under his breath and swung one huge fist at Laurent’s head. Laurent ducked, sliding out under his arm and away from the wall. Damen threw himself between them, shoving the boar toward the wall. The boar was large though, and heavy. Damen could feel his muscles flexing under his Veretian garb, and knew that brute strength might not be enough for him this time -- especially weakened as he was. But he could also smell the wine on the man’s breath, and something stronger as well. And he had an ally, which the boar hadn’t been expecting. 

For a tense moment they pushed, strength against strength, each trying to gain purchase, to pin or corner the other. Finally, he gathered his will and shoved. They both fell back a half step. Damen shifted his grip on the knife, ready to plunge forward again. 

“Don’t kill him!” The order cracked like a whip and Damen obeyed without thinking. He was already moving forward, ready to stab their attacker, so he had no choice but to drop his weapon. Instead he formed a fist and rammed it into the boar’s gut. His attack was lessened due to the rapid change in strategy, and he received a fist to the face for his trouble. He went down to a knee, his vision swimming. He tensed, prepared for another blow, but that blow never came. 

Instead he heard a  _ crack _ and then saw the boar topple. Laurent stood behind him, the candlestick clasped in both hands. Damen thought he was going to be sick, but as he waited on hands and knees, his vision cleared and he was able to sit up once more. 

“Why on earth did you stop me? He might have killed us both.” 

“He has information that I need. I couldn’t let him die yet.” 

Damen groaned, rubbing his bruised face and felt a cut under his jaw from the edge of the man’s boot. “Well… thank you, I suppose, for stopping him from doing worse.” 

A rare smile emerged from below the silver mask. “You’re welcome.” A pause, then, “And thank you, for helping me.” 

“Consider it your birthday gift.” 

 

The contents of the metal box had been scattered in the first few moments of the fight. Now they gathered them together. Damen picked up the ring again. 

“This belongs to my brother,” he said, handing it to Laurent. Maybe he could make more sense of it than Damen could. 

Laurent took the ring, turning it over in his fingers. “You’re certain it’s authentic?” 

“Yes.” He ran his finger along the band as Laurent held it up. “There’s a scratch here from the contest we had when he won it from me when we were young. I didn’t mind -- it was his before I was born.” Another unfortunate side effect of the drug seemed to be the inability to hold his tongue. 

Laurent looked from Damen to the unconscious form on the ground. “Your costume is ripped.” Damen looked down in surprise. Laurent was right. The shoulders hung loose on him. It must have split down the back during the struggle. He continued, “You didn’t select that costume, did you?” 

“No, we don’t have any Veretian clothing available to us in Akielos. It was waiting for me when we got here. A gift from the King.” 

Laurent’s expression grew inscrutable, which Damen was coming to learn meant he was thinking or upset. Perhaps it was both. Finally he said, “Regardless, you can’t go around in ripped clothing. Take Govart’s costume, it should fit you well enough.” 

Damen looked at the boar costume. The clothing itself was plain -- muted tans and greens. It probably would fit, and Damen felt sure that Laurent had other reasons for wanting him to change. He could even guess at some himself. Someone was trying to hurt him, so it would be in his best interest if he no longer looked like Prince Damianos. 

He went to work on the insufferable number of laces and knots while Laurent continued to search through the contents of the box. He had re-lit the candle and was finished with the documents by the time Damen had finally yanked the jacket and trousers from the limp body. He struggled with Veretian clothing on a good day, and he was not having a good day. 

Laurent stood, and Damen thought he looked a little paler than usual. “We need to hurry. Let me.” 

Damen didn’t quite understand until Laurent stepped forward and began to unlace his costume for him. Heat immediately rushed to his face, but he held still. Now that he knew Laurent for who he was, he was very conscious of the need not to offend him, and of his lack of self restraint at this time. Laurent’s movements were quick, methodical, as though he were saddling a horse or opening a letter. There was nothing sensuous or even personable about him as he worked the sleeves and jacket front, and then knelt to unlace the pants. 

Damen felt the immediate urge to run his fingers through that golden hair. His lips were suddenly very dry. He wanted to whisper sweet nothings and return the favor Laurent was doing him. They were ridiculous urges, he told himself. They were in the middle of unraveling thread upon thread of a plot that, according to Laurent, meant the fates of both of their countries. None of that logic had any effect on what his body had already decided to do. 

He felt it happen, saw Laurent pause when it did. Then, very pointedly, Laurent looked away from the offending area and continued his task. Damen looked up, breathing slowly and trying to conjure the most unromantic images he could muster. Try as he might, all he could see was the shape of a smile under a silver mask. 

He was exceedingly grateful when the new clothes were on him and Laurent was several feet away again. He fitted the boar mask to his head, completing the disguise. Laurent was already at the door, checking the hallway for guards or servants or erstwhile party guests. He gestured to Damen and they stepped out together into the dark hallway. Damen felt a drop, like he had stumbled into something much deeper. 


	3. Chapter 3

They made their way back to the servants’ staircase, but Laurent paused at the doorway. Damen stopped behind him; he heard it too. Moaning coming from somewhere inside the staircase. It showed no signs of quieting down anytime soon. 

Laurent turned back to him. “Stop smiling, that was our best escape route.” 

“So the rumors are true,” Damen said, still smiling. He felt like he had discovered some titillating secret. 

Laurent didn’t deign to answer. Instead, he lead them away from the door and farther down the hallway. His back was unnaturally straight. Was he scared? This all felt like a drug-induced dream, some unreality he would soon wake from. He would find himself back in his rooms in Akielos, the golden head in front of him replaced by someone softer, more pliable and gentle. Strangely, that idea didn’t bring him the comfort he expected. His imagined ideal bedmate felt stale and false in a way that unsettled him more than he would admit. 

The hallways in this part of the castle were wider. They were no longer in servants’ passages. He felt exposed. His mouth started moving without his prompting. 

“What did you find? In the box?” 

Laurent glanced back at him, then slid the papers inside his jacket. “I think… he hired knives for tonight. I know he orchestrated this masquerade in my  _ honor _ ,” a sneer. “I only have bits and pieces… I don’t know.” There was a desperation in his voice. 

“How long?” Damen asked. “You have informants. You suspected him of treachery before this.” 

Laurent paused in the hall. His hands clenched into fists. “Since Marlas.” 

Damen felt cold trickle down his spine. “Why?” 

“That’s not important now. What is important is his current plot and what we can do to stop it. How good are you at mimicry?” Laurent asked him. 

Damen couldn’t fathom the impetus for this question, but answered, “Not very. You’ve heard my accent.” 

Laurent’s lips pressed together. “I have. Fine. Then try not to speak. There will be guards at the end of the hall. I’m your prisoner and you’re above their reproach. Take my wrist.” He held out his arm so casually, spoke so simply. Damen hesitated, half-expecting some sort of trick. Then he reached out and took Laurent’s wrist. He felt the tension, the momentary resistance, the nervous breath. 

“Walk forward, turn right at the end of the hall and go down the stairs.” 

Damen followed the instructions, heart pounding. He held himself tall and took long strides. Laurent strained against him, just enough to give verisimilitude to their act, but not enough to bruise the fine skin beneath his sleeve. The hallway curved and there were two armed men guarding the exit. Damen’s heart beat faster but he didn’t slow, didn’t falter.

“Found him, did you?” One of the guards said as he passed. Damen grunted as he stormed past them, Laurent in tow. 

“Unhand me, you brute!” Laurent said in the most pompous and petulant tone Damen had ever heard. He tugged, not too hard but enough to make Laurent’s step skip forward. He waited for the guards to say something else. He was certain they would be found out. All he heard was a whisper and snicker as they turned right and started down the stairs. 

Once they were out of sight and out of earshot, Damen let go of Laurent’s wrist and paused against the stairs. He let out the breath he had been holding, which turned into a helpless laugh. He felt a little manic, maybe even hysterical. 

“Quiet,” Laurent whispered, though there was an amused gleam in those blue eyes. A curl to the corners of his mouth. Damen stifled himself, though his chest still shook with laughter as they continued down the stairs. 

“It worked,” Damen said when he could breathe again. 

“Luckily. You sold yourself short, though. You sounded exactly like him.” 

A pause, then laughter again. This time the smile came more easily to Laurent’s face. Damen even thought he heard a chuckle, but he couldn't be certain over the sound of his own amusement.

Laurent lead him once more through the labyrinthine halls of the Veretian palace. The moment of brevity passed, replaced by a sense of urgency. Damen thought that they hadn't taken this long to reach the chambers before. And that Laurent was taking odd, sudden turns. 

“Where-” Damen started to say, but Laurent held up a hand to silence him. Damen quieted and listened. Very faintly, he heard the murmur of voices down one of the many corridors. He understood then. Laurent was trying to avoid being seen. Damen moved more quietly after that.

Another three turns and they found themselves in a wide hallway draped in tapestries and lined with suits of armor. The decorations glinted in the moonlight filtering through the high, domed windows above them. Damen could tell that this hall was meant for daylight viewing, when the golden rays turned the polished metal into dazzling displays of military prowess and wealth. Meaningless, of course, but very Veretian. He did not recognize this hall, which seemed strange. Wouldn't this be the kind of display to show a visiting diplomat?

They tread with a bit more freedom here. The hall was wide enough that they could see it was empty. As they walked Damen glanced at the tapestries. They seemed to depict battles, coronations, and events of historical significance. He recognized some of them -- battles and wars with Akielos. His own people depicted as dark, barbarous, with curved swords and wild eyes against the golden and virtuous Veretian armies. He stopped in front of one. It was the battle of Delpha -- the old battle, when Vere had wrested the contentious territory from their enemies to the south. He became very aware of his location, his dress, the alliance formed almost exclusively through his work as he stared at depictions of dismembered Akielons scattered across the blood-red sea of their defeat. 

He understood why he hadn't been shown this room.

Laurent had stopped near the end of the hall and Damen picked up his pace to catch up. Laurent was looking at a new tapestry. Based on the empty space near it, Damen could guess that it was unfinished. Recent history. The art style had altered in the time between the last battle for Delpha and the most recent. The Akielons were less monstrous, though still dark and red against the pale and shining Veretians. He recognized King Aleron, Laurent’s father, riding bravely into his last battle. They both knew how that ended. 

_ Since Marlas _ , Laurent had said. Was this battle the last time Laurent had trusted his uncle? Damen thought about Kastor’s ring, hidden in an iron box in Arles and felt a sudden, urgent need to be home. Not just away from the twisting politics of Vere and its nobles, not to escape these machinations, but to face them head-on. He needed to find Nikandros, to get council from his allies, to see his own father. To do what Laurent no longer could. 

“Laurent,” Damen said and the Prince whipped around. Damen blanched. He had broken protocol, calling him by his name without titles. It was rude at best for him to do so without permission. Instead of the tongue-lashing he expected, Laurent grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into the corner by one of the suits of armor. 

Laurent shoved the bottom of his mask out of the way and, before he had time to breathe or think, he felt lips against his own. Surprise and excitement flooded him, drowning out thought. It took a moment for his body to react, but when it did, he felt very much in his element. The first kiss had been hurried, frantic on Laurent’s part. Damen was certain to make the next one gentler, more deliberate. He realized that he had wanted to do this since the moment these lips had greeted him from under the silver mask. By the third kiss he had a hand on Laurent’s waist and another drifting up, daring to brush the nape of his neck, the finest of golden hairs. He didn’t ask why it was happening, nor did he particularly care, until he heard the footsteps approaching. 

_ Of course. _ He opened his eyes, but couldn’t see anything. The boar mask was very large and, currently, obstructing his vision of anything but the barest sliver of jaw and blue fabric. Laurent’s arms wrapped around his neck, pressing in for another kiss. Well, if this was their cover, Damen wasn’t going to complain. 

“You!” The petulant voice came, which Damen recognized with a sudden dread. The ambassador’s son. He felt Laurent tense beneath his hands. He redoubled their cover, pressing Laurent to the wall, obscuring him as best he could with his considerably larger frame. The boy continued, “I thought you were looking for the prince.” 

Well, it had worked once. Damen grunted as gruffly and deeply as he could, gave a dismissive wave and went in for another kiss. 

The boy stomped a foot in childish fury then turned and stormed down the hallway. Damen kept his lips pressed to Laurent’s until he was certain the footsteps were gone. Perhaps he was a little overcautious. 

At last he drew back, repositioning his mask so he could see once again. His breathing was a little more ragged, and he saw a definite flush in Laurent’s pale cheeks. There was a bewildered, almost glazed look to him. For half a second, Damen thought about taking the mask off entirely and continuing where they left off, but that would be foolish. He needed to break the tension.

“He bought it,” he said. 

Laurent took the time to compose himself, straightening his clothes and smoothing out his hair. “Well. You were quite convincing.” Damen grinned, knowing full well that Laurent couldn’t see his expression of self-satisfaction. “This way,” Laurent said, taking the lead once more. “We’re nearly there.” 

 

A few more turns and, as promised, Laurent brought them back into the courtyard, though through a different door than they had left. The party seemed to have, amazingly, continued as normal without them. They had been gone at least an hour, though to Damen’s drug-warped sense of reality it felt much longer. He hesitated at the entrance, uncertain of how to proceed. Laurent didn’t. 

“Find your man,” he said. “I’ll find my brother. Meet us at the central fountain, and under no circumstances should you speak to anyone else. My uncle has more allies than you might think.” 

Damen nodded and moved, keeping to the edges of the crowd, out of the lamplight, until he could spot Nikandros. The colors felt more garish than ever -- painted faces and overworked styles. They all seemed menacing to him. There could be a knife hidden in that laced jacket, a spy watching others from beneath her bird-like mask, poison or worse strapped to that sleeve to be dropped nonchalantly into someone’s drink. All of the ugliness of Vere and its politics was laid bare before him. 

Despite it all, he kept an eye on Laurent, unmistakeable to him now as he slid gracefully from conversation group to conversation group, through paths and groves. A beacon. Vere didn’t have to be this way, he seemed to say. It had been made this way, and it could be unmade again. 

He had circled almost the entire courtyard before he spotted his friend and counselor. He was carefully sidestepping conversations. No doubt he was watching for Damen’s return. There would be a lot of explaining to do, once this night was over. 

He waited, stalking Nikandros until he was separated from the guests enough that they could speak without risk of being overheard. 

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” Damen said in Akielon, stepping onto the path beside him. 

Nikandros jumped and turned to look at him. He studied him up and down, and Damen wished he could see the look on his face instead of the ridiculous theatre mask. “Who are... are you… have we met?” 

Damen laughed. “You know me, old friend.” 

Nikandros seized him by the arm, jerking him off the path with more violence than Damen had expected. They tumbled through branches into a hedged-off alcove. Damen pushed Nikandros off with a heave and pushed the mask up. “Wait, wait, it’s me.” 

“Damianos?” The incredulity in Nikandros’s voice was worrying somehow. He dropped to a knee and removed his mask. “Apologies, my prince, for treating you so roughly.” 

“Rise,” Damen said with an exasperated sigh. “Who else did you think it could be?”

Nikandros returned to his feet. “I didn’t know who else here spoke Akielon, besides the servants. Did you-” Nikandros didn’t seem to know how to ask the question. “What happened to your other costume?” 

“It was… damaged.” The expression on Nikadros’s face grew even more confused. “What is it?” Something was wrong. 

Nikandros was reluctant to answer, but he did. “I saw you, with your lion head, not two minutes ago talking with the king.” 

The bottom dropped out of Damen’s stomach. He pushed the mask back down over his face. Everything was starting to come into focus. “Where?”

Nikandos strapped his own mask back on and lead Damen out of the bushes and back into the crowd. Had Laurent found Auguste yet? Would they be by the fountain? Nikandros wasn’t heading toward the fountain, though. He was heading to the square, where the dancers had performed. The entire gathering of attendees seemed to be moving in that same direction. Damen looked in every direction for Laurent, for Auguste, for their uncle, for the ambassador’s son, for himself. 

He spotted the last one, golden lion head held high, standing beside a platform that had been erected. Auguste stood on top of the platform, beckoning the guests to him. Laurent stood just to the side of the platform, his hands curled into fists. He looked paler than ever. Damen didn’t understand why, until he heard the first chime.  _ BONG! _

Midnight. The unmasking. 

“Friends,” Auguste began, his voice lifting loudly and confidently. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the court, honored guests,”  _ BONG! _ “We are gathered here tonight to welcome my brother, Prince Laurent de Vere, into his adulthood.”  _ BONG! _

Damen saw his doppelganger shift, the glint of steel, and all the mysteries of the night slammed at once into understanding.  _ BONG! _ He was already moving. His head had never felt more clear, pinpointed on the thin, curved blade the false Damianos had drawn. Someone screamed and Auguste turned, his next sentence dying on his lips as--  _ BONG!  _ Damen bent over, tackling the lion-masked man to the ground. The crowd erupted into cries of horror and fear. 

“Guards!” Someone was shouting.  _ BONG! _ “Guards, arrest the Akielons!” The King’s advisor had rushed forward in the pandemonium. 

_ BONG! _ Damen grappled with the would-be assassin. He was rolled onto his back and the knife flashed at him instead. He caught the man’s wrist, struggling, keeping the point inches away from his flesh.  _ BONG! _ He heaved, trying to roll them, but the attacker stayed firm above him. Everywhere around him people here shouting.  _ BONG!  _ His arm buckled under the force of the knife trained on him.  _ BONG! _ A shiny boot burst into the fight, landing square on the assassin’s temple. His head snapped to the side and the knife arm went limp.  _ BONG! _ He was out cold. The full weight of his imposter pressed Damen into the ground as a silver mask peered over the unconscious body.  _ BONG! _

“Get back,” a guard ordered and Laurent stepped out of Damen’s line of sight. It took three men to haul the body off Damen. A fourth guard offered his hand, which Damen took and rose to his feet. The scene was pandemonium. The guests and servants had scattered, some drawing back, some drawn forward, others rushing to find help or safety. He saw Laurent standing nearby, watching, calculating. He saw Auguste, flanked by his two personal guards, speaking to his uncle in hushed tones. Auguste had removed his mask, or perhaps lost it at some point in the commotion. He saw too, Nikandros on his knees, held down by yet more guards. They had all arrived so swiftly -- too swiftly. Damen was certain he hadn’t noticed this many men at the ready at the start of the party.

“Let him up,” Damen said to the guards pinning Nikandros. They didn’t spare him a glance. He moved toward them, speaking louder this time. “I said let him up.” Damen’s hand curled into a fist, ready to fight again until he felt a hand on his arm. Laurent had stepped forward to stop him.

Auguste seemed to have overheard too, and came toward the pinned and unconscious Akielons. He looked more deeply shaken than Damen had ever seen him. People were starting to gather once more, now that the violence had been stayed. 

“You’re crazy. His prince just tried to kill our king,” one of the men responded, then spat on the ground. 

Damen uttered the foulest Akielon curse he knew and ripped off the boar mask, flinging it as far away from him as he could. He was sick of this farce. “I am his prince and I just saved your king’s life. Let him up. Now.” His voice was imbued with all the power of his birthright, and it carried. Whispers and gasps from the crowd. 

A long moment while the guards looked to their king and Auguste stared at Damen. “Let him up,” Auguste said, without taking his eyes from Damen. The guards stepped back at once and Damen stepped forward to help his friend up. They exchanged looks, determined that neither was seriously injured, and Damen clapped Nikandros on the shoulder. 

The guards holding the imposter now removed his mask. Damen wasn’t sure why, but he half expected to see Kastor’s face under the mask, after having found his ring here. But it wasn’t. It was an Akielon man, but one that he didn’t recognize. 

“I don’t understand,” said Auguste, though he sounded more relieved than anything else.

“Perhaps I can help,” said a cool, commanding voice from atop the stage. They both looked to see Laurent, unmasked and victorious, holding the papers he had taken from his uncle’s room. He was even more beautiful without the mask and Damen felt his heart thump unnaturally loud in his ears. “Our uncle weaves a tangled web, to be certain.” 

Auguste hurried up to the stage and Damen followed close behind. “Laurent,” Auguste’s tone was hushed and scolding, “this is not the time.” 

Laurent’s confident air faltered for just a moment, the sting of what seemed to be a long-standing point of contention between the brothers. Then his façade was back, and he spoke louder than before, making sure that every person gathered could hear. “I have here,” he held the papers higher, “evidence of a conspiracy formulated between my uncle, the King’s advisor and Kastor, the bastard son of King Theomedes of Akielos to assassinate my brother the king and frame Prince Damianos as the culprit.” 

For once, the entire garden fell silent. Damen felt the same dizzying nausea as he had when he found the ring in the box. Kastor, his brother. He never would have suspected him. How long had he been plotting? 

Auguste, meanwhile, was looking from the unmasked assassin to Damen to Laurent and then… “Where is he?” Other people were starting to look around too. The red and black clad advisor had disappeared.

Laurent pointed with one elegant hand and all eyes followed his gesture. Two of Laurent’s personal guard were leading his now restrained uncle toward the stage. He was struggling against their grasp. 

“We caught him making a run for the stables, Your Highness,” said the taller of the two guards. 

“This is ridiculous,” said the traitor. “Your Majesty, you know me better than this. The Prince has long had a vendetta against me, for some reason. This is simply a contemptible grab at attention.”

Laurent wasn’t finished. “If these letters are not enough proof, I urge you to send guards at once to our uncle’s room. You should find his man, Govart, unconscious beside the box that held these letters. Seek out also Counsellor Guion’s youngest son, Aimeric. In his room you will find an unusual amount of  _ chalis _ which he was meant to give to Prince Damianos to keep him out of the way while his double committed this murder. Finally, I offer as witness Prince Damianos himself who has been harrassed, drugged, attacked and slandered this night and still found the strength and courage to save the life of my King and brother, his once-enemy.” His voice lowered slightly as he looked at Damen. “And for that I may never be able to repay him.” 

The murmurs started again. Whispers of doubt and the suspicion, but also the sound of agreement. Of shock and horror, yes, but stemming from a wholehearted belief in the accusations. 

Auguste waved his hand, silencing the crowd. He too was looking at the foreign prince in their midst. “Prince Damianos, is what he says true?” 

Damen felt all eyes on him, but cared only for the blue ones still looking at him from the stage. “I cannot speak to all of the details, but I know this: I was drugged tonight by a young man wearing white with an ambassador’s knowledge of my language. By chance, I followed Prince Laurent to his uncle’s rooms where we discovered the letters he holds now, along with a ring belonging to my half-brother Kastor. We were attacked by the man whose costume I wear now, who others have named Govart. I believe the Prince is correct and earnest in his accusations. All this is true, I swear by my honor and by our friendship.” 

A scattering of whispers, which were hushed in anticipation of the King’s decision. Auguste deliberated, the silence growing more tense by the second. Finally, “This will require a formal investigation and a hearing. For now lock my uncle in his rooms, under full guard and put the assassin in a cell. Captain,” he turned to one of his personal guard, “have your best men look into my brother’s claims. If you find them to be true, arrest the witnesses he named.” 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The guards followed their orders. Laurent watched, unblinking as his uncle was led away.

Auguste climbed up onto the stage, addressing the crowd once more. “This is… not how I expected this night to unfold, I will admit. But the danger has passed and it is still my brother’s coming of age. We will move inside for the feast, and you may remove your masks.”

The talking started up again in earnest as the courtiers removed their masks and moved en masse into the castle. Damen, still standing at the base of the platform, heard the brothers speaking to each other. 

“I’m sorry,” Auguste said. “I-” 

“It’s okay.” Laurent’s face turned grim. “I just… I couldn’t let him near your son.” 

  
  


\---

 

Later that night, after several courses of the meal and many more drinks, things were beginning to return to normal amongst the party guests. Some courtiers had pets perched on their laps or cuddled up against them, giving their visitors the satisfaction of finally seeing the truth behind the rumors.

“My friend,” Auguste said, leaning over the table. “I owe you my life. If there is anything I can give you in return, ask it and it shall be yours.” 

Damen fiddled with the ridiculously tiny spoon that had come with this course (he thought it was the seventh or eighth, but he had given up counting). He looked across the table at the guest of honor, Laurent, lounging in his seat like he hadn’t just saved two different monarchs and their respective countries from death and war. Laurent caught his gaze and there was a smile there, shy and uncertain and hopeful. How long since he had felt really at ease?

He turned back to Auguste. “I would ask your blessing.” 

“My blessing?” 

“It’s an Akielon custom to ask the family of the person you wish to court for their approval. And I imagine it might be a matter of state as well as personal.” 

The King looked from Damen to his younger brother across the table. He was thinking, Damen recognized the same pucker of the brow, the wrinkle in the forehead, though Auguste’s was deeper. “I must admit, I… didn’t anticipate such a request.” Laurent seemed to sense that he was being talked about and stood to join them. Auguste continued, “But if he agrees, if that’s what would make him happy, then I see no reason to deny you.” 

“What are you talking about?” Laurent asked, perfectly innocent as he plopped himself onto the bench between the King of Vere and the Heir of Akielos. 

Damen answered, “I wanted to extend and invitation to you, to visit Ios. Not immediately, there seems to be some family matters I will need to attend to when I return, but soon. I think you would like it there, though there’s less sneaking around I’m afraid.” 

Laurent looked from Damen to Auguste, who gave him a nod. The smile returned, a little broader, more genuine, and Damen felt his chest swell. “I would like that very much, I think.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! It's done! Thanks for all the kudos, I'm really glad to have this out in the world and finished. And a big thank you again to @shipstain for helping me edit.

**Author's Note:**

> lmao thanks for reading


End file.
